After the Fall
by Usagi Elric
Summary: After 3 years of trying to come to terms with Sherlock not being around anymore, how will John react when he finds that the man he had spend so much time mourning and spent all his waking hours thinking about, is alive? And at his door? Johnlock


John sat in his armchair, in the living room of 221B, Baker street. His laptop sitting on his knees, the fan whirring as it heated up from him using it. He stared at the screen, his blog facing him. The caret blinking at him as his mind wandered. At first he was thinking of what to type, about his day, his neighbourhood. He began to think of Mrs Hudson, and the little things she would say, and Lestrade, and his antics towards…of course. His thoughts had brought him there again. Not a day, an hour, a minute, went by when he didn't end up on him. _**Sherlock**_. He could hear the name resound in his mind, exactly like he heard it whenever they talk, or argued, or when he was scolded him.

_God_ he wished he had had just a second more. Just a second was all he needed, to say what he had been longing to. Call himself a greedy man if he had to, but a second didn't feel like nearly long enough. He needed Sherlock back, his one friend, and his one remedy to the nightmares of the war. His nightmares had gotten worse since that day, now they were plagued with images of him, his best friend, laying dead on the ground. His desperate pleading for him not to do it, his heart and insides plummeting when he stepped off the building, watching him fall and not being able to do anything but watch. The blood spattered across his pale skin, and matted in his ebony, curled locks.

He stopped himself, pinching the bridge on his nose, and slowly running his hands over his face. He sat, staring out the window at the rain, resting his temple against two of his fingers. He closed the laptop, and shoved it onto the floor. Standing, he began to wander aimlessly around, and inevitably finding himself at the same door as ever. Reaching out, his hand grasped the doorhandle. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he let it swing open. The wave of scent hit him. _His _scent. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, letting it envelope him. His eyes slid open again slowly. Taking a few steps forward, memories moved around him. Him lifting Sherlock and dumping him onto his bed, throwing a blanket over him, and Sherlock saying how he couldn't possibly need John. His faced scrunched up into a pained expression, and he hung his head, his eyes stinging, and sobs threatening to shake him.

Suddenly, he heard a knock at the door. His head snapped up, and he realised how pathetic he must look. Regaining his composure, he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, and walked to the door, swinging it open.

His eyes widened, as he took in the sight before him. _'That's it…I've lost my mind…'_ he though to himself.

"Watson…John, I'm-I'm home. " Said the deep, velvet voice that sent his mind reeling, and dropped his heart a thousand miles through the floor. Dear god, it was the most wonderful thing to ever grace his ears. There he stood, a perfect picture. Dark hair beaded with drops of rain, droplets streaming down his pale face. He snapped his arm out, and grabbed a fistful of the navy blue scarf that was tied around the man's neck, and dragged him back, flinging him into the hallway of the house. He slammed the door as he spun around, to see the tall, dark man stumble slightly, before tuning to look at him, shocked. "John, wha—"

"Sherlock Holmes you ASS!" John bellowed, cutting off the taller one, striding up to him, and landing a blow directly to the side of the man's face. Sherlock stumbled, holding where he had been hit. "Watson, what in hell did you do that for?!" "Because you're a bastard, you know that?! You had me thinking you were dead! And then you just—you just show up at the door, and announce that you're home, like it's nothing?! Why haven't you shown up earlier?! I've been alone for3 years, 3 whole fucking years, Sherlock!" He ranted. "I...I thought you liked surprises, John. I did it to protect you…I couldn't—I couldn't let Moriaty's men hurt you any more." He said quietly. The sandy-blonde man's stomach flipped when he heard his voice again, and in his adrenaline high, his inhibitions crumbled. "I thought…I thought I was never going to be able to tell you…" He said equally quietly. "Tell me what?"

"That I love you, you stupid man." He said precariously. Sherlock froze, looking down at him with a frown on his eyebrows, creased in confusion and thought. "You…You what?" He said, shocked, making sure he didn't hallucinate that. "You heard me," the blonde replied. He took a step closer, taking the lapels of the dark jacket in his hands, staring at the taller man's chest blindly, keeping himself from looking up. Sherlock's right hand came up to grasp John's elbow, telling him to look at him through the gesture. "I suppose…I had better tell you the truth then?" He said, facing directly forward, his voice made the shorter man's stomach flutter, along with the situation, their proximity, his touch. Sherlock leaned closer, his lips near John's ear,

"I love you too, Doctor Watson." He breathed in a whisper.

Breath was stolen from the doctor in a sharp gasp, his heart raced, the warm breath of his crush tickling his ear and neck, leaving him tingling. Not sure what to do next, he drew his head back, keeping close, almost trailing his lips against the cheek of the man in front of him. Not looking up to his eyes, he hovered just centimetres away from the pale lips before him. He dared to lean forward, first halfway, then without meeting any signs of rejection, all the way.

Fire coursed through both their bodies at the touch, Sherlock reached his free hand up to gently wrap around the nape of John's neck, even more gently bringing him closer. John let go of the jacket, and wrapped his arms around his lover, blood pounded loudly in his ears, he broke away, but only for a second, to regain his breath. He once again met with warm lips, this time his tongue grazing gently, experimenting, asking for access. Granted, Sherlock parted his mouth, and John slipped his tongue in. Sherlock gently stroked his sandy blonde hair with his thumb, while Watson reached up to intertwine his hand in the obsidian dark, damp curls. Over a minute more of ferociously kissing each other breathless, they broke apart, their foreheads meeting as they stared into each other's eyes.

"Have I ever told you that your eyes are the most peculiar blue? …it's wonderful, really..." John whispered, not tearing his gaze. "Yours are a rather grey brown…I like it." The blonde chuckled at his straightforwardness, Sherlock lightly traced his tongue over his lips, still tasting John on them. "What do you want to do..?" John breathed. "That's elementary, my dear Watson. The answer is of course, you." He said with a smirk, and for the third time in ten minutes, taking the good doctor's breath away.


End file.
